(LOG)Ilgnuit's funeral

[#] The lamenting bells drowned out the hushed murmur of the crowd as peasants and nobles alike thronged the village square. At the center, demanding all attention, rose a massive pyre built overnight by the priests, and in the midst lay the dead Prince shrouded in black to hide the gruesome sight his body had become. One by one, those that wished to pay their respects approached, some praying before the pyre, many leaving tokens to accompany Prince Ilgnuit on his final journey. Suddenly, as sharp as a lightening strike, there was silence. The bells ceased and the crowd followed suit as the royal entourage arrived, priests in the lead.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen took his place at the head of the royal gathering, second only to the priests in whom he'd just begun to respect. These past three days he'd worked through the tolling of the bells, distracting himself from the necessity of what was to come. But now it was upon him, the weight sagging his shoulders beneath the simple black monk's robe he wore. Tears could be seen glistening in his eyes from the light of the braziers. His eyes focused on that black shroud atop the mystically-arranged woodpile, regret and doubt clouding his mind; the King knew only that his son was dead, at the hands of the boy's brother no less, and he had let it happen...not just in assenting to the duel, but in the thousand little accommodations he'd given Ilgnuit, in the gestures that helped set the boy at odds with Uhtred. Halting at the head of the pyre, Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen produced a gold-handled dagger, which looked to be his parting gift to the corpse. Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen hesitated for just a moment, however. Suddenly he grabbed the great mass of his salted beard, close to his jaw, and hacked. Once, twice, and a third time finally had the whole mess free. With a choked sob he lay the fistful of hair up close to the corpse's skull, pinning it down with the valuable blade, before he stepped back to let others make their show of respect.

Uhtred Valenti should not have come to this, of course. It was not his place to give peace to the corpse of the man he had killed, only to harbour his heart as though it would keep him company. This was a far cry from the hellish beast who had brutalized the man not so long ago. To watch his father made every nerve in his body fire blankly, reducing him to a strange shudder. He crept up to the altar with a reluctance that might well be construed as guilt. In his hand was a black, cloth sack with something bulbous inside. It would never be shown to any other, but in the cloth was Ilgnuit's stolen heart. The aetheling's lips quirked to the side, the frown deep upon his brow. "You are not a trophy," he murmured, and set the sack down. He barely remembered stepping back.

Silas Valenti loomed, looking quite the appropriate image of black, spectral, reaperish morbidity. Both hands were clasped in front of him, hood drawn to its full covering potential. He would make no move towards that body; he was here as acting Deacon. The Prince business was inappropriate. He'd never met Ilgnuit to grieve. No one would be convinced by a show of sadness, and he had no idea how to make one, either. So, at the head of his priests, he remained in place, simply listening. He would've delighted, in this moment, in simply producing a bottle of champagne and suggesting revelry, but given that everyone was genuinely sad for at least one reason, he'd not go ahead with it. Head slightly down, he stood simply as a grim reminder as to the presence of death.

Garnett moved quietly at Uhtred's side, her bright head bowed and covered, pale skin seeming frighteningly so against the midnight black of her gown. Her carefully composed facade faltered for a moment, tears springing to the corner of her eyes at the sound of the King's grief, and when he stepped back, she tentatively touched a gloved hand to his elbow, eyes locked on the ground. Her other hand that had held Uhtred's arm fell away when he approached the pyre, Garnett careful to give him privacy, though once he'd said his last, she stepped forward to lay a slip of folded paper with all the other tokens, lips twisting apologetically. There was nothing to give, only memories and few of them good. She murmured a soft prayer speeding his soul to God before she slipped back, gloved fingers finding their place in the crook so Uhtred's arm again with a tight grip.

Mereavus' black velvet clad presence followed after Garnett, stately and sombre. She stopped before the covered body, looking over the previously placed parting gifts. She didn't have an organ, or anything expensive. Rather, a handkerchief some eight years old. Still white, and embroidered around the edge with burgundy thread. 'M.V' was placed neatly in one corner. The item was produced from her sleeve, and brought with it a memory between herself and what was now nothing more than settled blood and blue skin. A fall from a horse, a corpse in a tree and a convenient catch. She folded it meticulously as though it was intended for a tunic pocket, and laid it lightly over the cloth over his chest. "I'm sorry I never saved you," she murmured, barely above a whisper, given that it was something of a private thing to be saying. She withdrew from the pyre once she'd left it, going back to stand in her place, a foot or so behind the King, as mother's representative.

Christoph Valvogt's hands clasped behind his back as he watched the royal procession. The steward had arrived earlier, still in his black livery, and he'd left a mug of ale on the altar for the Prince, but now, he observed, ready to attend the family should need arise, sharp eyes missing little of the proceedings. It was difficult to suppress a shudder at the King's grief, but it was the dark spectre of the newly returned second son that he could not take his gaze from. Realizing he was staring, he dipped his head in a bow in case the Prince had seen him, a chill wracking wildly over his body as realization that had only danced in the fringes of his mind came to full view. Paling cheeks and somber expressions went well at a funeral..the steward struggling to get himself under control.

Silas Valenti straightened once he'd heard everyone present but Synaria pass their respects on, straightening and turning with his usual unnatural precision in her direction. One gloved hand lifted, extending in her direction. "Would the Princess Synaria approach the pyre," he said, voice loud enough for all present to hear, though still rather more gentle than usual. A priest passed him a pair of scissors, which he took by the point, to offer out to Synaria once she eventually made her way over. He had nothing official to say, as yet, until the flames were lit and the final well-wishing went ahead, so he remained silent, anticipating the Princess' presence with his white eyes concealed and hood drifting with the movements of his lips. He knew she'd hate this part, but publicly there was very little he could do to offer any obvious support.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen hardly saw either Uhtred or Garnett through the veil of his tears, though he inclined his head at the feel of the Princess's gloved hand on his limb. No rage at the Crown Prince was forthcoming; despite the shocking depths of his grief, he couldn't be angry at the boy. He'd have done much the same, in Uhtred's situation. He acknowledged Mereavus's presence with a similar inclination, but he said nothing, mistrusting his voice at the moment. Instead he searched the crowd for faces both familiar and alien, taking comfort in the authentic grief he imagined seeing. Conspicuously he avoided laying eyes upon Synaria, even when his youngest remaining--legitimate--son called her to attention. He felt a chill deep within him, of the kind that no pyre could hope to extenguish, no matter its brightness.

Synaria watched them all, with dark eyes covered by a thin black veil. She had to breathe, but she couldn't quite remember how. What breath came, was in short, silent gasps until gradually, her lungs worked themselves to proper airsupply. She barely heard her name, coming forward only at the sound of Silas' voice. On her heels were the small tinkling of the bells attached to her ankle. The rest of the Royal party, the people gathered, where ignored in favor of placing a hand on Silas' and gently pushing the scissors away with another. "I've brought my own." She whispered and moved to the pyre. Bloodshot eyes lowered to the black cloth covering Ilgnuit. Her hand lowered and slid under to grasp his cold hand. Her other searched a fold in her gown and pulled out the silver bracelet he had given her on their wedding day. Gently, she slid it onto his hand, the bangle only fitting to his knuckles. She then tucked his hand back under the cloth. Again, her hand searched the folds and brought forth a gleaming daggar that Christoph had brought to her. For a long moment, she simply looked at the shroud, not even the simplest prayer floating from her lips. Her mind raged. She couldn't. Head turned, to look over her shoulder at the Royalty gathered. She had to. With a deep breath, she rose the daggar to her hair, gathering it all with one hand and sliced through it, until those long silken curls fell away evenly. Clentched fist rose over his body. I hope the wind shifts, and you do not find your God. Fingers loosened and let the hair fall through them. But find mine instead.

Silas Valenti passed the scissors back to the priest, passing Synaria's hand off only after a brief, inconspicuous squeeze. Once she'd gone, he gestured to another of the priests to take the lighted torch over to her (he would've, but a blind man handling fire was probably not a good idea, unless Nharati was due to go up in flames early) for the moment she deemed herself ready to set it all up in a bonfire. He returned to his posture, the niggling sensation of being watched rather intensely finally over - whatever cretin couldn't control his eyes had apparently caught himself at last. Impertinent wretches. He heard the slice through hair, absently wondering if Ilgnuit had turned into a fluffball with the amount that had been plonked onto him today.

Uhtred Valenti felt his stomach churn when Synaria approached the impending inferno. A terrible aspect of this tradition was about to unfold, and it was a terrible thing to watch. Hair was rather sacred to the fellow, after all. So now he crossed his arm upon his middle and set the opposite hand on his mouth, watching with a wince. It was a strange thing to watch. Whispers were amongst the crowd now. The reluctance to free her hair from her head was in poor taste, in these circles. It was impossible to keep onlookers of this number completely silent, but the sound was enough to cause Uhtred's head to snap rather violently, a rather volatile anger churning high in his throat.

Garnett's pale eyes watched Synaria expressionlessly, the momentary tears gone in exchange for a sort of impassiveness. The conversation with the Advisor had settled her thoughts greatly, the funeral more bearable, though it was not without a stab as Synaria dragged the knife through her curls..the hesitation unmissed. Her gaze lifted nervously to the murmuring crowd, the girl slipping closer to her husband's side as she felt the shift in him. She clutched at his arm, thoughts roiling on her beloved sister, so much that she found herself unable to reconcile. Her head dipped close to Uhtred, unable to help thinking terrible thoughts of him on such a pyre, and she lifted her eyes for reassuring glance at his face.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen finally set his gaze on the supposedly-grieving widow when she approached the corpse of his middling son, a deep frown crossing his features, the effect much less noticeable now that the great mass of facial hair was no longer there to twitch with the motion. Her hesitation didn't sit well, and for an instant he thought he would have to make good on his unspoken threat to uphold the ancient tradition if Synaria failed to uphold the newer one, but he breathed a sigh of relief when she finally removed the curls from her skull. Palms tingled as he gripped them behind his back, his fingernails digging into the flesh to ease the queer sensation. Anticipation for the roasting flames built, but still he did not speak, did not move...the crowd around dropping away, his world subsuming into the pyre and its occupant.

Synaria looked up, finally, at the gathered crowd, as she slid the veil back over her head. Their murmurings meant nothing to her. Her rage at the corpse grew as she felt the horrible lack of weight upon her skull. Gently, the daggar was placed among the rest of the gifts. Painted nails gently grasping the cloth and tugging it down until his eyes were exposed and not an inch further. She turned her rage into tears, letting them flow in hopes it would ease the tingle in her fingers. She bent over, pretending to give her husband one last kiss, but instead, hissed in his ear. "You will watch this too." Quietly. Then the torch was in her hand, her nails humming to the flickering flames. "Goodbye, love." She whispered and touched the torch against the wood. She did not step back far. She stayed close, to feel the heat of the spreading fire. Close enough so it nearly licked at her clothing, but just far enough not to arise too much suspicion.

Silas Valenti took some twisted pleasure out of that scent; flames meant justice had come, that God was doing as he ought. His features flickered behind the rhythmic flexing of heat in the air, seemingly neutral. "May the essence of his Highness, Prince Ilgnuit Valenti, beloved to so many, be carried to the Halls of God, and may he surely receive forgiveness for his sins and love for his goodness. We pray that he will find his forefathers, and rest with them in the eternal honour of his ancestry under the protection and undying favour of the Almighty. We ask of Him to bring the bereft comfort, though we can offer only the soul of one we have lost. As smoke and spirit ascend to the skies, we pray for the fortitude to love and forgive as God does, to know justice and fairness, mercy tempered with righteousness. May his Highness' memory live on in us, let him sleep in peaceful silence."

Uhtred Valenti watched the fire ignite and the flames danced in his wide eyes. His brother was burning, if he ever could have been called that. He also watched as it all went wrong. It started with a candle. Whoever threw it was lost in the throng, but it it rose extra sparks as it bounced off of the burning wood and landed with a partially melted clatter upon the ground. Moments later, it would be joined by another, and another. The whispers in the crowd were turning into murmurs, which gave way to a rising sound. They were becoming animated, and candles were increasing in quantity with the pitch. Despite this dissension, Uhtred couldn't help but wonder how it could have been organized that so many people happened to have them at their disposal.

Garnett nearly stepped back as the heat rose before them, the natural wind of the fire causing her to squint, but she listened as Silas spoke the necessary words. A strange sound drew her head up, brow wrinkling slightly for she'd not seen the first candle, but the ones that followed, she did. A step back seemed the instinctive reaction, but she snapped out of her fear for a moment, bending close to the front of the dais to try to snatch at Synaria's shoulder, wanting to drag her back. Guards joined her in that attempt, trying to herd the widow back to the other royals as they made there presence known to the crowd. Nervous eyes glanced toward the King and the guards as the fire lit the crowd into something far more sinister in her mind.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen felt the heartbeats slow, time seeming to stand still for a brief instant. The first spark of flame on the dried wood was like a spark of life; suddenly the sights and sounds of the yard flooded his senses and the King stumbled, regaining his balance with a hand on Mereavus's shoulder, though he did not turn to look at his wife's confidante. He didn't blink, either, letting the gathering light burn into his eyes until the tears glossed over the sight. Only then did he take note of the candles being thrown. His signal to the guards wasn't necessary, but he made it nontheless, a rattling anger rising at this breech of protocol, but he did not unleash the building fury so long as the mob remained peaceful.

Mereavus' hand rose to catch the King's elbow once he stumbled, gingerly letting go once he seemed to have regained his composure. Her eyes shifted from Synaria to Silas, back off to Garnett (her investment was there - primary concern, and all that), and one hand unconsciously slipping south to her abdomen. She silently willed herself to not get stressed; she couldn't get stressed, there couldn't be any more of it, and neither could she leave. Composure. Her jaw tightened some, palm pressing against herself as though it might possibly keep the contents of her womb from capitulating and dashing its fragile presence to pieces. The guards were there, they'd be safe, no harm, nothing. It'd be fine.

Synaria stood, staring into the flames, trying to convince her twitching fingers that they had caused the blaze, trying to imagine the screams she would have been hearing had things gone according to her plan. Nothing existed but the fire to her, Silas' words nothing but white noise. Even the growing mutterings of the crowd had gone unnoticed, until she felt vicious tugs on her shoulders from Garnett and the Guards that were pulling her away. A candle fell and landed near her, barely missing the trailing silk of her sari. Eyes grew wide, mouth opened to say something, but no words came as she allowed herself to be dragged back with the rest. The fire warmed skin, not loosing it's heat. The rage and confusion building it to a near feverish temperature.

Uhtred Valenti had hoped that this would be the end of it, but it wasn't. Candles were no longer the sole objects to be thrown. Soon it became anything that a dirty ceorl could get his hand on. Besides the obvious fire hazard at throwing a wooden bucket or a feather pillow, the more dangerous hazard of a spade, a hatchet, stones, and chickens made the guards perform a little more actively. They were pushing at the crowd, now, knocking them back with polearms and neutralizing members whom acted in this unacceptable fashion. The prince was stepping down from the podium now, covering Synaria's withdrawl and giving a pointed look to his father. He had knights that could be commanded to charge the throng if necessary. But the mob seemed to understand this fact, and the projectiles began to relent.

Silas Valenti's father might still have his reserve, but thrown candles weren't his idea of a suitable funeral, nor suitable respect - so, quite remarkably, the usually very quiet Valenti's voice practically thundered across the gathered crowds with a warning as stark as his tone. "That will be enough!" he seethed. "His Highness' pyre could always withstand a little more fuel, and we appear to be entirely out of wood. You will show the proper respect for Royalty and God or burn yourselves, without benefit of prior demise." And if necessary, he'd do it. Examples often had to be made, and he'd take rather a delighted glee in throwing a few more bodies in there for God to judge and curse. Damned plebs and their damned lack of manners and respect. He'd have to up the number of burnings regardless at this rate!

Garnett pulled Synaria up beside her as Uhtred slipped away, green eyes following him carefully though to her surprise she wasn't trembling. The heat off of her sister made her frown, Garnett glancing at her worriedly as she put a supportive arm around her. Her gaze slipped back to the advisor, calming hand offered as she shuddered at the cries of the chickens that suddenly found themselves being burnt alive, one running back out into the crowd, illiciting screams and a press back from the pyre until a booted foot began stomping on the poor creature, eliminating both its remaining life and the fire. Much of the crowd quelled beneath the Deacon's strident voice, though one missile of rotten food stuffs landed at the foot of the dais, splattering upward toward the women.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen scratched his chin in poor substitute to the thoughtful stroking of his now-shorn beard, worry mounting as the caliber of projectiles changed...not worry over his or any of the Royals' safety per se, but concern over the necessary reaction. THere seemed nothing he could do to allay the crowd's anguish; and so, breathing deeply, he prepared to order the evacuation of the yard by force of arms when Silas' voice took precedence. For the first time that evening he took note of the young man, blinking at the ferocity of his conviction and appreciating that show of strength. Looking upon the Crown Prince, Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen shook his head to ward the boy off any ideas of bloodshed.

Synaria flinched when the food flew and splattered upon the foot of her gown, and slid down between her bare toes. Warm fingers tightened around Garnett's arm. But instead of turning to the scene, to the things flying through the air and burning fowl, she stared at the fire. Her eyes glossing over. Even his death could not be peaceful. It was as if his infantile soul had seeped from the smoke and devoured the gathered people. Teeth grinded together, the tendons in her neck straining to keep herself in check. But there was so much heat within her that begged release, so much fury that had no vent but unsatisfactory tears. "Why?" She whispered. It hurt, standing there with so much built up, physically hurt to the point she nearly doubled over, only Garnett's arm keeping her upright.

Mereavus seemed to vanish after Garnett's last notice of her - entirely unlike her to abandon the Royalty, but a rather swift ache in her stomach had set her to fleeing. In actuality, she wasn't all that far away, simply somewhere quieter to catch her breath and attempt to soothe her nerves. So highly strung with the hormones, and not helped by the sudden panic that it was going to happen before she'd even had a chance to leave Nharati, she crouched with her back against a wall and her arms around her stomach, eyes closing and a very deliberate attempt made to regulate her breathing. Not here, and not now. She wouldn't revisit the square; she'd stay where she was until she felt better or was found, whichever came first.

Danele Valenti: A slow murmur began to ripple through the throng of peasants surrounding the funeral pyre and beyond. At the back of the crowd, the ebon shrouded figure stood, regal and posed, despite the somber color and surroundings. The smell of burnt flesh was heavy in the air; sorrow even more so. Anger seemed to underlay it all, emphasized by the projectiles aimed at those on the dias. Surprisingly, those that saw the Queen immeadiately dropped into bows and backed away, clearing a figure for the mourning woman. Even through the veil covering her tearstained beauty, her gaze was intense. With slow, careful steps, she began to walk forward. The nearer she came, the more hushed the crowd grew, until there was naught but the sound of the crackling flames. The Queen had not been seen in weeks, having shut herself away in her chambers. The worst of rumors had circulated, from her own death to insanity.

Uhtred Valenti received his command and nodded, though nearly flinched out his skin and punched Silas in the stomach when he shouted. God, but the man had volume to him! A mildly bemused glance was given to the blind man before he hopped back on to the podium. Whatever strangeness that had resulted in, it had worked. The crowd was calming, and no life had been lost so far. A firm hand took the guards away from both women there. "Are you well?" he asked both of them, looking in particular at the hem of Synaria's clothing. As long as she wasn't on fire, there seemed to be no injury. But when the Queen came, he lost all thought. It was a hard thing, keeping the cringe from off of his face as he stared at her. He had not seen her since, and was thus rather afraid of how she would look at him.

Garnett knew not what to do other than hold on to Synaria, worry for the obviously pained woman gripping her as she did her best to steady the Princess. Relief swept over her when Uhtred rejoined them, her hand fluttering to his arm for a moment as she nodded. "Unharmed, husband, though I fear Synaria is unwell." And who wouldn't be? Whatever else she had thought to say died as the strange hush that settled over the crowd. Her head to swiveled toward where it seemed the throng had oriented, eyes widening at the sight of the Queen, and the guilt that the Advisor had assuaged rising once more as she sunk into a curtsey next to Synaria, emotions churning at the sight of the woman, pleased she was well, but..uncertain.

Wyldrigrenkledrysllthen felt the tension build, real fear trickling to the back of his mind--what if he hadn't guards enough? Certainly knights were impressive, but only if they could be summoned in time. His terror was assuaged quite suddenly as the crowd fell into a lull, his eyes widening when it parted to show the Queen's arrival. He felt his throat sieze; if there was anything Wyld wished to spare Danele, this was it. Though he hadn't expressly forbidden her attendance to the ceremony, her arrival did nothing to set his mind at ease. Swallowing with difficulty, he moved from his position on the platform, ignoring the scorching heat of the pyre. His hands gripped Danele's shoulders, and he mouthed the words I'm sorry, the tears glistening once more.

Synaria laid her warm head against Garnett's cool shoulder, trying to rid herself of the 'fever' gripping her body. Glazed eyes turned over toward Uhtred, giving a slow nod. Unwell would have been welcomed as opposed to what she was feeling. The stink of the rotting food wafting up into her nostrils, bringing back memories. She was sixteen again, stones and food thrown at her carriage. Her breath quickened, the world trembling before her eyes. She wanted to sleep, just close her eyes and get away from reality. But the memory of her burned pillows reminded her sleep would not bode well in this stressful time. She knew it was only her will keeping her from torching the whole square in want of release. Then Garnett was bending, and Syn was bending with her into a strange off-centered bow at Danele's arrival. But she couldn't see her. The pain and tears coating the world in a thin veil of wax.

Danele Valenti continued her slow trek to the dias, head high, and gaze straight ahead. Still the crowd parted. Arms holding refuse fell down to hips, a hundred breaths seemed to be inhaled and held at unison. What would the Queen do? It was no secret the close relationship she had shared with Ilgnuit. After all, he was the assumed love child of she and the King, and it was a lie she had not bothered to correct. Even if he were not of her blood, he was a son of her heart. Picking up her full, black skirts, she walked up the few steps onto the dias, then let them fall. It was the hands of her husband she found upon her, and for the first time, she showed true expression. Trembling, gloved hand lifted to his distraught features in an infinite gesture of comfort. Fingers stroked the length of his jaw, the skated over his full lips. Reassurance? Wyld knew it was, even if none else did. A tenuous smile given beneath the sheer veil, the hand withdrew so she could turn from him. No acknowledgement of Synaria and Garnett was given yet. No. Her path seemed to be for the Prince, and the Prince alone. She stopped before him and looked up slowly. The flash of uncertainty was in his eyes (maybe). Surprisingly, she did not scream, nor rail. There were no accusations. No hurled curses. Instead, she did the most unusual of things. She reached into one of her long sleeves and withdrew an equally dark handkercheif. Then, she reached for one of Uhtred's hands. She swiped the cloth over it, then did the same with his other. "His blood is no longer on your hands, my son. His death was his own." She kissed the center of his palm, just a mere brush of the lips, then released it to turn and toss the cloth into the fire.

Silas Valenti's priests guided him up onto the podium, one glove moving to brush past Garnett's arm to place a hand against Synaria's side, hood still obscuring his features. Silent again, apparently, after pointing out that he wasn't so meek as might be assumed, and quite naturally ignoring the done and not-done now that the majority of the funeral was over. If the Princess was 'unwell', then it was quite likely the Prince-Deacon wouldn't be all that far away. No doubt odd to onlookers, but he'd burn them if they commented, right? So he'd not lean with her, but attempt to guide her into more of a straight posture. He would've looked at Garnett, but quite obviously couldn't, so for the present had to assume she'd work with him. Friendship said he couldn't just stand there with his priests like the blind oaf they thought he was.

Uhtred Valenti watched the woman approach, and he let his uncertainty show freely for once. The mask, for all intents and purposes, was unnecessary. He watched those small hands ply at his, dwarfed under the gloved monstrosities that were his palms. He nearly shivered when the cloth brushed against cloth, but that was because it sounded atrocious, like the scratching of fingers on porcelain. He watched her head lower, and never once looked away. She put him in the most unsure position of his life; caught between wanting to cry and desiring to thrust her face in the fire and loving the thought of yelling at her, while enjoying the thought of falling into her arms as well. It was all canceled out, settled upon simply staring dumbly when the cloth was thrown into the fire, hands jutted out oddly as though he could not move them after they were handled.

Garnett was torn between tending to Synaria and watching the Queen approach her husband. Tension rippled through her, a natural protective instinct. Silas's intervention was met with a quick squeeze to his hand as she guided Synaria to use him for support, her lips brushing the woman's cheek. "It'll be over soon." She assured her, eyes seeking Uhtred's face, studying his expression before a small dark-gloved hand laid on his closest to her, fingers lacing through them as she whispered. "Uhtred.." The tears he couldn't shed burned in her eyes, a single one trickling along the side of her nose. Tentatively, she took the Queen's hand in her free one and brought it up toward her lips reverently, trembling finally making itself known.

Synaria tried desperately to blink her eyes clear, but it was no use. Fingers clutched harder onto Garnett, until her cool lips brushed against her cheek and the dark shadow of Silas finally came into recognizable clarity. Arm sought to hook at his elbow for balance as he prodded her to straighten. And she did, to an extent. Her head did not lean on his shoulder, but her own shoulders stayed a bit hunched, as if the tension it created would hold in all that wished to escape. Her free arm wrapped around her abdomen, clutching tightly to the opposite hip bone, nails digging into the fabric, hoping the pain would cancel out the pain of the offended fire in her veins. Attention then tried to return, as best as she could manage, back to the others, trying to see the King and Queen both through the mist and smoke. "Thank you." She murmured to Silas without looking toward him.

Danele Valenti's declaration sent another rippling murmur through the gathered throng. With her hand ensconced in her daughter in law's, she reached to take Synaria's(if possible). as well, then turned toward the crowd. She did not speak until the hush had descended once more. "Our God's will is done. Let none speak ill of the tools used to implement it, less they suffer his wrath..." She paused, and damned if it was not utterly dramatic. "... and mine. The Prince will be mourned properly, and then life shall resume within Nharati." There was no mistaking the Queen's intent. With her family, she made sure a united front was presented. None would be blamed. None would be held in contempt. The crowd was silent, all bowing their heads and keeping eyes downcast, even the children.

Silas Valenti's arm settled itself alongside Synaria's, holding lightly to her wrist whilst his elbow bent beneath hers, effectively providing a prop should she require it. He remained silent, simply providing presence and a light squeeze to her wrist in answer to the thanks whilst Danele spoke. Unified family was a good image to project, even if it was horrendously untrue. He kept his hood up, normally by this point slotting it down, but he didn't trust himself to put the desired expression to his face at any given time, and it might look a tad too personal, particularly with one arm hooked around his late brother's wife. The silence of the crowd was suitable, if nothing else, but for the present he was more concerned with departing, and putting Synaria somewhere she didn't need to pretend and strain.